


back against the wall

by wastrelwoods



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Developing Relationship, M/M, Near Death Experiences, Of Course. Gotta Have That UST, Trust Issues, Unresolved Sexual Tension, because ya GOTTA HAVE THAT TOO, boys. gentlemen. use your words, re those german words: there was an Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-25
Updated: 2018-03-25
Packaged: 2019-04-07 22:51:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14091453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wastrelwoods/pseuds/wastrelwoods
Summary: Molly's go-to problem solving strategy gets under Caleb's skin like nothing else. Or, Molly and Caleb and the various walls he's been gently and socially pinned to.





	back against the wall

i.

 

Caleb’s watching Jester and Yasha drag the spider through the grate when the slender, tattooed hand comes to rest against the wall by his shoulder. He turns and flinches at the sudden proximity of a grinning purple face, studded through with silver and gold and traced with half a dozen thin white scars. There’s still blood leaking sluggishly over Mollymauk’s jaw, trickling from one ear and staining the brocaded collar of his coat. “Caleb,” he says, with a friendly tilt of his head, and he realizes quite suddenly that he’s cornered. Trapped.

His eyes are scarlet and shining and Caleb can’t meet them, can’t risk it, can’t stop the way his lungs seize in his chest when Molly’s other hand comes to rest directly over his sternum, long nails pulling at the worn threads of his scarf. “If you’re gonna skim off the top,” the tiefling lilts, and Caleb couldn’t have begun to guess what this was about before, he’s strangely grateful for the accusation and the sudden cold clarity it brings, “Be clever about it, will you? Sixty, seventy percent of the spoils to the rest of the group? Share and share alike.” 

Caleb wonders distantly whether he might be the man Mollymauk seems to think he is, because he’s considered it. They all must know he has, and he couldn’t stop himself considering it any more than he’s ever been able to stop himself from seeing the coward’s path clear before him every chance he gets. Take the money and run in the night, take everything he can, and never look back. This past week alone he’s pocketed more coin than he’s ever seen in his life, enough to buy himself into a new life, if such a thing were ever possible. He’d be willing to try it, a thousand times more willing than he’s ever been to find a cause worth dying for. 

And yet, at this moment...the prospect rings strange in his ears. Until Mollymauk made the idea of it crystal clear to him the thought had barely crossed his mind. He’d been thinking of solutions to more immediate problems, a way to appease Jester, a way to win the glove from Fjord. Means to an end.

Caleb’s spent long enough lacking in coin to know that the true value of money goes beyond the material. Coin is the key to a door, the component that makes a spell’s magic take hold, the difference between life and death in many circumstances. More simply, it provides opportunity.

Molly’s leaning over him, imposing by sheer dint of not trying in the slightest to appear threatening, six inches taller than Caleb and slender as a willow and sharp as a knife to the heart. Perhaps he nods without quite meaning to, or the tiefling can see the answer he’s searching for written over his face, because the hand over his collarbone shifts away to pat him gently on the cheek. “Good boy,” he says, to punctuate his impromptu lesson, and then as suddenly as he appeared he’s gone again, leaving Caleb to stand there trembling faintly with cobwebs caught in his hair. 

 

ii.

The trouble is that for all Caleb is making progress, slowly relearning the intricacies of group interaction, where to speak up and when to look someone in the eyes and how to get what he needs without giving up more than he can afford in return, Mollymauk is a special case. 

He’s a tangled web of contradictions, is Mollymauk, one Caleb hopes he can keep himself from trying to untangle. He’s not in the habit of trying to read people like books unless he’s grifting them, and instinct tells Caleb grifting Molly is liable to end him with a sword to the stomach. Or perhaps nothing more than another of those sharp-toothed smiles of his. These two things, strangely enough, strike Caleb as equally dangerous, and so he takes care to avoid both. 

Molly’s brand of forwardness is, among other things, nearly impossible to anticipate in advance. And, it seems, he’s twice as unpredictable in his cups as he is sober. 

“I hope you know,” he says quickly, half under his breath, “That I would not be here if I could help it.” 

“Drew the short straw, did you?” The tiefling’s words come slower and smoother as his feet tangle with Caleb’s and threaten to send the both of them crashing to the ground. Caleb can’t imagine how they are going to manage the stairs back to the second floor at this rate. Eyes follow them all over the tavern, he can feel them prickling the back of his neck, burning as he shuffles along with a plastered purple peacock draped over him. 

He’s not far off the mark. Jester was sequestered away in her hiding place, safely out of sight of the Crown’s Guard or anyone who wouldn’t mind taking money from them to recognize a face on a wanted poster, Beauregard was still healing, Nott was a non-starter, Yasha hadn’t been seen since yesterday evening, and Fjord had calmly reminded Caleb that he was owed a favor, and so the task fell to him. 

He sets Mollymauk on his feet again with a scowl, and bites his tongue. 

Molly leans closer, and his breath smells of violets and honey and an alcoholic burn strong enough to make Caleb’s eyes water. His wry painted smile is a little lopsided. “Knew you cared about me, love, deep down,” he slurs. 

The sticky, uncomfortable heat of an arm wrapped around his shoulders and the singsong drawl of his voice near Caleb’s ear and that ever-present whirl of color and shape and sensation that accompanies Mollymauk wherever he walks have Caleb off-balance, of course they do, but the sharp odor of the liquor cuts through it all like the keen edge of one of those blades of his. He grimaces, turning his face into the collar of his coat like a makeshift shield. “You are making a scene,” he snaps, cheeks hot. 

Molly snickers, and trips over the first step. “Damn! Ah, but the night’s still young.” 

“We are supposed,” Caleb hisses, dragging the pair of them stumbling as far as the first landing, “to be blending in. Would it really kill you to be a little more discreet?” 

Something about that only makes Mollymauk laugh harder, clutching at Caleb’s coat and smothering a manic giggle into the mass of copper curls at the base of his neck. Caleb masks a shiver at the sensation, and reaches out a hand to steady himself on the railing. “You’re a funny man, Caleb,” he says, with an earnest note that makes Caleb feel like his heart is pounding loud enough to shake the walls. “And anyway, this is a tavern, isn’t it? People drink in taverns. It’s the done thing, I’m told.” 

Caleb doesn’t know quite how to address any of that, with the back of his neck still burning hot and his teeth gritted tight, but luckily the vertical battle up the rest of the staircase provides an easy distraction. Molly leans half his weight on Caleb, his face brushing against his neck, the rings and baubles dangling from his curling horns catching in Caleb’s hair. One unsteady step at a time, they reach the hallway and begin the trek down to their rooms. “What is this _scheisse_ you were drinking, anyway?” Caleb asks, for lack of anything better to fill the strained silence. 

“Something new,” Mollymauk tells him, with a triumphant grin and a persistent drag to his consonants. “Had a lovely name. Marquetian! Went down as smooth as a summer thunderstorm.” He hiccups, seems to surprise himself with it, setting off another peal of laughter. 

“I’ll take your word for it,” he says, and grunts as Molly’s feet catch at his own again, throwing him off-balance until he’s pitching wildly to one side. The tiefling follows him, still draped over his shoulders, and the pair of them crash into the nearest wall in a confused tangle of limbs.

Caleb doesn’t breathe, caught between the plaster and the exposed plane of Molly’s chest. One of his long, lithe arms is pinned behind Caleb’s neck, the other bracing himself against the frame of the door. His horns knock against Caleb’s temples, jingling faintly, and the violet-honey-bitter smell fills Caleb’s nostrils again as warm breath wafts over his face.

“Hello there,” Molly drawls, and Caleb’s eye is caught by the glint of silver in his bottom lip and he can’t quite manage to look away again. His mouth has a rosy tint to it, a little darker and redder than the cool lavender of his skin, and his teeth come to sharp points that make the skin prickle on Caleb’s neck. A hair-thin white scar on his chin, faded almost to nothing, the barest shadow of stubble beginning to grow in, and Caleb’s heart pounds when he realizes he’s been staring for far longer than he should. 

Mollymauk unsettles him, and so effortlessly that it’s almost terrifying. Caleb looks away and sets his jaw and waits for Molly to break away. Backing down first, because whatever game this is he doesn’t have the first clue how to play it. 

The weight lifts from his chest, and Molly steps away with a little more coordination than Caleb had been given to think he possessed. If it were possible for the ostentatious mask of his face to show chagrin, it might be doing so now. “Sorry,” he says lightly, and braces himself further down the wall. “I think I know my way from here.” 

Caleb doesn’t stir to help him again, which is probably something of a dick move, but he can still feel the weight of something pressing down on him, turning his limbs to stone and clouding his thoughts like smoke. “ _Ja_ ,” he murmurs, after a while, but Mollymauk is already gone. 

 

iii.

 

The passageway is long, and dark, and Caleb has no real recourse but to keep his eyes on Beau’s back, only a few feet in front of him but nearly invisible in the inky blackness. Fjord cautioned the lot of them to be silent, back at the mouth of the passage, long minutes ago, and Caleb obeys as best he can, picking out small, cautious steps with Jester’s freckled arm looped through his to prevent him finding any walls with his face. 

His mind wanders with the meandering slope of endless tunnel, counting coin and tracking the hours since they last rested, considering the small stone slowly wearing through the sole of his boot with every step and the curl of hair that’s escaped his tie to tickle at his ear. Going back through a catalogue of ink and paper, the whorls and glyphs of every incantation preserved neatly in his memory. His free hand brushes absentmindedly beneath his coat to worry at the strap of the holster at his side, thumbing at the stuck-together pages of his book. 

Beau stops, and Caleb doesn’t notice immediately, but he’s brought up to speed when he stumbles into her from behind. There’s a gentle hiss from Fjord, up ahead, and an instant later a familiar hand tugs at his cloak as Nott finds her way back to the group. 

“Tunnel splits up ahead,” she whispers, and when she tilts her head toward Caleb he can see the gold shine of her eyes in the darkness. “I say we pick a side and go.” 

“Hold on,” Fjord cautions, probably holding out a hand, but Caleb can barely tell which direction his voice is echoing from. “Don’t you wanna check ‘em both out before we make a decision?”

“The little one’s right,” Mollymauk says, somewhere over Caleb’s shoulder, “We don’t have the time. Whatever lives down here will be coming home soon.”

“Yeah, somehow I don’t think they’re gonna be happy to see us,” Beauregard chimes in, at a little louder timbre than a proper whisper ought to be. 

“We should split up!” Jester announces, and Caleb doesn’t need his sight to know he’s not the only one to turn and stare in her direction. 

“We’re not doing that,” Yasha says, at the same time as Beau chimes in again, “Me and Yasha take the left, you take the right?” 

Caleb ignores the ensuing squabble to make a few quick calculations. It’s not a certain thing, but he hasn’t had much to do down here besides keep track of the twists and turns as they pass him by. He can make an educated guess. “Left would lead us toward the Trispire.” 

“Well, then, let’s all take the left,” Fjord confirms, and they do. 

The left path snakes further down into the ground in a series of dizzying switchbacks, and then narrows abruptly. Jester pats his hand apologetically as she pulls her arm away and steps in front of him, since there’s no more space for the pair to walk side by side. Caleb sighs quietly, and reaches out until his fingertips brush against solid stone to either side. 

He hears the awkward shuffling this time as Nott doubles back along the passage to the rest of them, and pauses, listening intently. 

“There’s a big open chamber up there,” she says, in her reedy whisper, “And then more tunnel on the other side, and I bet that takes us right under the Library.” Beau cheers, quietly, and Nott sucks in a quavering breath before continuing, “But I think there’s something _else_ in that chamber. Big and scary, with this long tail and ears like--” Caleb guesses she’s miming the shape of the beast, but without a visual he wouldn’t have the first clue how to identify it. 

“Aw, shit, and I am almost out of spells,” Jester moans. “Do you think I could attack it with my sickle? Would that work?” 

“Lets just try to sneak by, first, real quiet-like. Avoid the fight.” Caleb is, as usual, supremely grateful for Fjord’s level-headed, commanding tone. “And if it comes down to it….we’ll make it work,” he whispers.

Caleb winces, remembers the rest of them can see his expression, and tries to school his face into practiced calm instead. Nott shuffles back to the front of the group, leading the charge, too far ahead for Caleb to reach her if she needs his help. Jester pats the crown of her head as she hurries past, the motion illuminated by a faint silver glow. 

And together, the group starts forward, holding their breath. One pace at a time. Caleb crushes a fistful of herbs in his palm and whispers an incantation and feels the faint crackle of energy as his image begins to blur and shift. 

He can’t tell where the chamber opens up, and that’s the worst part. This step could be the one that leads him into danger, or the next, or the next, and so he must treat each of them with the same caution. Thirty feet down the passage the wall falls away from his fingertips to one side, and he pauses for a moment, swallowing. 

In the same instant, there’s a clack of wood striking stone, and a low, animal sound of surprise. Caleb freezes, eyes wide, and then a hand catches his arm and drags him back and sideways and his back meets the stone and something is pinning him there, a hand over his mouth--  


\--Mollymauk makes the faintest of shushing sounds, more felt as the whisper of breath against his ear than heard. Caleb’s heart stops and starts again, he can feel his pulse in his throat, he’s shaken and burnt out and useless in this fight, he can’t afford a fight at all, but the fight is coming to meet him anyway, and Molly is standing so _close_. 

A moment passes, and there is no movement, no sound, nothing but the pad of Mollymauk’s thumb against his cheek and the faint smell of tobacco and iron and incense that clings to him like a cloak. 

The silence stretches on, unbearable in the unchanging darkness, and slowly, Caleb can feel Molly shifting, the deliberate slide of a sword’s edge over his own thigh, another inaudible hiss of a wince. Not knowing where the beast stands is almost worse than standing in front of it with all his sight and none of his spells. 

There’s a low chime in his ear, and he hears Nott’s voice, sudden and clear. “It worked! I put it to sleep,” she hisses, “I don’t know how long it will last, come on, come on!” 

Caleb feels his knees buckle, and he slides down the wall a few inches, gasping for air, his hands coming up to brace himself against Molly’s arms. “You put it to _sleep_?” he replies, a little dazed. 

“You heard the lass, quickly, lets move,” Mollymauk fusses, but Caleb can feel his hand trembling as he reaches down to pull Caleb to his feet. The pair of them move briskly through the open chamber to meet the rest of the party in the tunnel opposite, and Yasha trails behind them, boots heavy on the stone. 

Unsettled as he is, it takes Caleb a minute longer to remember to loose his grip on Mollymauk’s sleeve. The tiefling catches his hand as he pulls away, squeezing at his fingers for just a moment and then letting him go without a word. 

Caleb tries not to think on it. There are more pressing matters at stake just now. 

 

iv. 

 

Frumpkin mewls, and Caleb looks up from his ale to catch a glimpse of the door to the building opposite them as it falls shut. “That was quick,” he murmurs. 

“They’re not coming back here,” Nott says, slowly, standing on her tiptoes to peer out the window and around the corner. “There’s someone with them, a dragonborn. She’s leading them somewhere.”

“We can’t let them go alone!” Jester’s lower lips trembles. “What if it’s a trap! What if they are _vampires_? What if they are taking Fjord and Beau away to _turn them into vampires too_?” 

“Fjord and Beauregard can handle themselves,” Caleb attempts to console her. “They are badasses, hmm? They are the best fighters in our group. And I don’t think vampires are what we should be worrying about just now.” 

Molly stands, his coattails swirling, and takes Caleb’s ale from his hand to toss back the last dregs. “Just because they can doesn’t mean they should have to,” he announces, and scoops Frumpkin up. “Follow the nice green man and the grouchy woman, there’s a good kitty!” Caleb sighs as Molly tosses his familiar gently into the street, and quietly sends him after the departing party members and their escort.

“Is this Gentleman person a vampire?” Nott says worriedly. “You didn’t warn me there were going to be vampires!” 

“There are no vampires,” Caleb assures her, rising to stand beside Molly. “Probably.” 

“Are we going to _follow_ them?” 

“I am,” Caleb tells her, “Quietly. From as far away as possible. Just to make sure nothing goes wrong. I’ll be back before you know I’m even gone.” 

Nott stares at him for a long moment, and then her gaze shifts away and over his shoulder. Caleb turns and sees Mollymauk incline his head in a slight nod, and turns back to Nott, bemused. The question is brimming at the tip of his tongue when Molly grins and offers him an arm. “Come on, then,” he lilts, “We’re burning daylight.” 

Caleb accepts the offered arm, but waits until the pair of them have made it into the street before calling Frumpkin’s vision to his eyes. He’s moving down a narrow alley and up a set of rickety wooden steps to a second floor landing, the distant sound of rolling carts and chattering strangers fading in and out of focus. “This way,” he informs Mollymauk, turning the pair of them away from the main thoroughfare. 

They follow in this manner for a while, up and down the sides of buildings, moving in hidden circles through the back alleyways of the city, until Frumpkin meets a closed door and stops, scratching at it and mewling again. Caleb sighs and stares up at the deserted storefront, then comes back to himself, sending Frumpkin away in a puff of mist. 

He and Molly turn the corner at the bottom of the street and see it with their own eyes, the building half fallen to rubble, the windows cracked and coated in a thick layer of dust. “I suppose we should go in.” 

“Probably,” Molly echoes, but he doesn’t sound any happier about it than Caleb feels. They pace closer, approaching from the side, slow careful steps over the cobbles, crossing the silver thread woven subtly between them--

“ _Scheisse_ , wait, don’t--” Caleb warns too late, as the puff of blue mist signifies the broken thread. From the inside of the abandoned shop comes a sudden sound, like a warning cry. “The alarm,” he explains, while Mollymauk grunts in understanding and looks around for an escape. 

“Alleyway?” he asks, and Caleb nods, and the pair of them run for it, and nearly run headlong into a dead end. 

“Wrong alleyway,” Molly gasps, but when they turn they can already hear heavy footfalls growing heavier, closer. They’re fucked, they are so fucked, there isn’t time even to describe how fucked they are, and Caleb is reaching for his spellbook when Molly grasps his shoulder. “I have an idea,” he says, breathlessly. 

“Then you had better try it soon,” is what Caleb means to say, before he’s cut off by the sudden press of Molly’s lips against his. Caleb stumbles, eyes wide, and Molly pushes, and he finds himself in a very familiar situation, caught between Mollymauk and a plane of solid brick.

It’s not a kiss, exactly, only a passable facsimile, and while it follows that a performance like this would be exactly like Mollymauk there’s still a moment where Caleb’s brain races in sheer panic, wondering whether he should have seen this _coming_ somehow. 

For once Caleb is nearly as shocked as he is terrified, one of Molly’s hands buried in his curls and another resting on his hip, and from the mouth of the alley there’s a quiet grunt of surprise before the footsteps begin to move away again, growing quieter as they fade into the distance. 

There’s a faint red flush turning Molly’s cheeks violet when he pulls away, one that Caleb can’t recall ever seeing before. He smooths Caleb’s hair back into place, swallowing, not meeting his eyes, before a slightly manic giggle bursts from his throat. “I can’t believe that worked,” he says, with a lightheaded air. “It was a fifty fifty shot they’d be the type to stick around and watch the show.”

Caleb calls him something in Zemnian that would probably have made his mother blush, because his heart is still pounding at a mile a minute and because he can’t shake the sudden realization of just how little movement would be necessary to reach up and drag him back down until their mouths met again. Almost effortless, really, which only makes it feel all the more dangerous to Caleb. He likes self-control. He likes knowing where he stands, knowing not to trust people with the kind of easy wide smiles that Mollymauk is so fond of flashing his way. He flashes one now, light glinting off the gold piercing in his forked tongue. 

“I would appreciate,” he grunts, “A little warning. In the future.” 

“Ah, but then how would I keep you on your toes, hmm?” Molly reaches out again and pats his cheek, fondly, then pauses, grin turning sly. “Are you promising me a next time, Caleb Widogast?” 

Every time he thinks he’s gotten a foothold, the bastard finds something new to throw at Caleb to shake him off again. He’s _good_ at it. Caleb would congratulate him if he could find the words. “I….” he stammers, “I, uh...don’t--”

“No,” Molly says, with an unreadable expression. “No, I suppose you wouldn’t.” Caleb has the impression he’s overlooked something. “Well, never mind all that! Shall we be getting back to our friends? I’m sure Nott and dear Jester will have lots of questions for us.”

He offers his arm again, and Caleb takes it without thinking. His mind wanders practically the whole way back to the inn, street names and twists and secret entrances interspersed with pages of spells to be learned, interspersed with flashes of Mollymauk’s grinning, flushed face hovering close by his own. 

 

v.

 

For a moment the pain is so sharp and searing his vision tunnels, and he’s half expecting the world to fade to black entirely, but unconsciousness doesn’t come. Caleb gasps, lips bloodied, and stumbles back in a moment of animal fear and pain. He grabs for the diamond, one hand weaving the incantation while the other clutches at the dagger buried in his guts, but it’s useless, he can’t keep his head clear, the charge dissipates to nothing when he tries to fire it off. 

Caleb closes his eyes, ducks back under cover as best he can, and takes a moment to mutter _nein_ a few times in swift succession. It doesn’t do much good. 

Distantly, he hears Fjord calling out, trying to catch the elf’s attention, the clash of blades and the hiss of loosened bolts, and for the moment at least no other blades come flying in Caleb’s direction to finish him off. He falls against the wall, teeth gritted, and focuses on simply breathing, in and out again, not letting the agony overwhelm him. 

“Caleb.” The sound of his own name in his ears is hollow and strange, and he looks up to see Mollymauk, a dark violet bruise swelling one of his eyes shut. “Come on, lad, up you get,” he chides, trying to pull him back to his feet.

Caleb tries, he really does, but before he’s gone far his body reminds him none too gently of the blade buried deep in his stomach and he curls back in on himself, tears pricking in his eyes. “I don’t suppose there is anything you can do about this,” he hisses, not bothering to make it sound like a question. 

“Sorry,” Molly murmurs, and from the pained look on his face he really means it. He lets go Caleb’s hand and reaches up to wipe at a streak of blood trickling into his beard. “I never learned how to mend wounds, only to make them.” 

Somewhere close by comes a battle cry from Beau and the heavy impact of a flurry of blows. Caleb nods, rests his weary head a little by leaning into Mollymauk’s hand. He thinks the tiefling could forgive him taking that small respite. “You and I have that in common, I think,” he grunts. 

His eyes meet Caleb’s but the expression on his face is entirely inscrutable, not a mask so much as a careful blankness. The vacancy of it fills Caleb with a kind of irrational frustration, that if these are his last minutes alive he’s been cheated of the chance to spend them watching Mollymauk smile instead. “I’m sorry, I did not mean-” 

“Hush,” Molly tells him, planting a swift kiss on Caleb’s forehead and reaching up to unclasp a chain from around his neck. “Save your strength.” The chain winds around Caleb’s neck instead, the heart-and-hands pendant slipping beneath his scarf to rest over his collarbone. Molly’s hand presses down over it, just for a moment, close enough perhaps to feel the drumming of his heart. “I’ll be needing that back later, understood?” 

Caleb nods, unsure what he’s agreeing to but aware of the subtle cool glow of protective magic winding over his skin. “You don’t have to--”

“I do.” This time Molly does smile, wide and warm and a little rough at the edges, before he steps to the side and rejoins the fray, hissing a taunt in that low, crackling register of Infernal. Caleb doesn’t move to follow him, because his legs make the decision for him and finally give out. He slides slowly down the wall to the ground, fading in and out a minute longer before slipping peacefully into darkness at last. 

 

vi.

 

The tavern is crowded and noisy and the night is growing late, but that’s not the full reason Caleb is eager to make his escape. He could stay there all night, happily hidden in the corner with a book and a mug of ale and Frumpkin curled up on his lap, watching Nott breeze her way from patron to patron and return loaded down with sparkling odds and ends and really too many buttons. But he’d caught a flash of whirling color out of the corner of his eye a few minutes back, and found himself staring off in that direction, thinking. 

Frumpkin howls in protest at being displaced, but Caleb winds him around Nott’s shoulders and he settles again easily enough. “Are you alright?” she asks, grabbing at the sleeve of his coat.

Caleb hesitates a moment, slow sore and moving with a limp he’s sure her keen eyes have already observed. “Well enough,” he admits, tucking a stray hair back under her hood. “And healing.”

“Alright.” She doesn’t let go of his arm, doesn’t meet his eyes. “....It’s just I worry, and--”

“I know you do,” Caleb says. “I know. Thank you.”

Nott looks him over again, head to toe, her big eyes narrowed, scouring him for hidden injuries, before she sighs and lets him go. “Well. Okay then. Caleb?” 

He hums in acknowledgement, and Nott reaches up to scratch Frumpkin under the chin, nervously. “Don’t die, alright?” 

“Of course,” he tells her, kneeling down to put the two of them on eye level. “Of course I won’t. No more close calls, either. Not for a long while.” 

Nott sniffs at him, and nods imperiously. “Alright. Just so long as that’s settled.” Frumpkin mewls and his tail bats at her chin. Caleb feels a small smile drag at the corners of his mouth as he stands and makes his way toward the door. 

It’s not much quieter outside, or much darker, but the air is cool and the clamor of the crowd is a little more distant. There’s a fragrant purple smoke drifting on the breeze. 

Caleb turns and sees Mollymauk leaning against the wall, an elegant carved wood pipe in one hand, that same purple smoke curling around his mouth when he smiles. “Fancy meeting you here,” he drawls. “Looking for a little respite from the evening crowds?”

He clears his throat. “Actually, I was looking for...uh, you.” 

Molly stops with the pipe halfway to his mouth, pleased surprise flitting over his features. “Caleb, you flatterer! To what do I owe this unexpected visit?”

This was a foolish idea. He’d had half a plan, less than that, just jumped out on a limb without thinking about it, and since when has Caleb Widogast let himself do anything without thinking first, just like that? He steers back toward safer waters, reaching into his pocket and pulling out the pendant on a chain, offering it to Mollymauk. “I came to...to return this. To you.” 

Molly reaches for it, hesitates, takes a long drag on his pipe. “Keep it,” he says, breezily. “Call it a gift.” 

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Caleb takes the two ends of the clasp in his hands, steps closer and reaches up to fasten it around Mollymauk’s neck. “You asked me to return it,” he says, primly, “And I am returning it. _Ja_?”

His eyes flit up to meet Molly’s, almost by accident, and Caleb feels his heart leap again, that same strange joyous terror that seizes him every time. The clasp catches, and before he can think better of it Caleb reaches his hand up to rest against Mollymauk’s jaw, leans in and plants a kiss directly on his mouth, still trailing smoke. 

Molly shudders and gasps and grabs Caleb by the shoulders, and he runs hotter than Caleb was expecting, warm and soft and just an edge of sharp teeth, breaking the kiss off too soon. “Don’t,” he says, sharply, and Caleb freezes. 

He pulls back. “Don’t?”

“Don’t….don’t kiss me because you feel that you _owe_ me,” Molly says, and his voice is so raw Caleb feels a pang in his chest. 

He stares at the tiefling, baffled, “I’m kissing you because I want to, _Arschloch_.” 

“Ah.” Molly reaches up and tangles his fingers in Caleb’s hair, loosening it from its tie. “Ah. Well, in that case…” 

Mollymauk kisses the same way he goes about everything else, surprising Caleb on and on, throwing him off balance until he feels like he’s in over his head completely, pressing just as close as he wants to until he fills Caleb’s field of vision entirely. 

Caleb finds he doesn’t mind it so much after all, under these circumstances.

**Author's Note:**

> listen that last talks machina after waste and webs was just like. 45 minutes of how caleb and molly feel about each other and i got a little bit invested in that dynamic, okay? okay!
> 
> also blease talk to me on tumblr or twitter @wastrelwoods im a big queer


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